Winter's Song
by Arianna083
Summary: Winter has come, yet she is still able to smile if only for him. As Jon and Sansa grow closer than either thought possible, understanding turns to love. Love that quickly becomes a passion so fierce it will consume them both. (AU. Set post-season 6, Sansa/Jon)
1. King in the North

**Winter's Song**

 **By:** Arianna

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own a thing, just felt the need to write.

This is my winter song to you  
The storm is coming soon  
It rolls in from the sea

My love a beacon in the night  
My words will be your light  
To carry you to me.

\- _Sara Bareilles_

 **Jon**

* * *

Her hands were so cold.

Always cold, and Jon felt within his very bones a deep instinctual need to warm them. He had resisted for most of the day, locked away in his fathers—now his—chambers. Settling the petty disputes, soothing fiery tempers that flared white-hot at the slightest provocation. Being King was one prolonged negotiation he was quickly discovering. Negotiating, and compromise. Being the most intimidating man in the room without having to resort to the kind of mindless violence most might use to cling to power.

In truth, Jon was completely overwhelmed. He was a solider; he had been trained as one, served as one and died as one.

How heavy the crown was. How ungainly he felt in his own skin. For the first time in his life, Jon regretted the choice he had made to emulate his noble father in all things. _Ned Stark._ His name was synonymous with respect and a strength that was immovable as the Wall itself. Honour. Diligence. And above all, the knowledge that in the end, winter claims all in ice and snow. He could feel an undeniable truth seep into his blood when he was alone, which had become a very rare luxury of late. There were too many enemies at the gate—and possibly within. War was coming, a great wave that never stopped but ebbed and flowed, pulled to the shore by greed and desperation. All beings wanted power.

Jon simply wished to sleep.

Sleep, and keep Sansa—the only tangible evidence that remained to him of a life free from blood and death—from being so cold.

"Have you eaten enough?" his voice held a decidedly gentle edge, although he could not hide the rough, inelegance of it. He had never learned pretty words. Now, he couldn't help but wish he were more gallant, a knight who could conjure the proper phrases and compliments to cheer her spirits.

Yet King of the North or no, he was still but the sum of his parts.

She did not respond, but her startlingly blue gaze flickered from her barely touched plate and met his. Something that had been tightly knotted within his chest unraveled at her soft smile. She only ever smiled for him. The thought saddened him greatly, though he realized that since their reunion so much had changed between them. It had happened seamlessly yet he still found himself marveling at the transformation. She was Sansa, the same girl who used to chastise him with the mere lifting of a disdainful eyebrow. She was still the girl who had never soiled her silken gowns with frivolous play, who used to devote herself body and soul to the teachings of the _septa_ and sing so sweetly of knights and fair maidens. Jon remembered her voice, soft and effortless. He had always secretly enjoyed her songs though he had always felt the bitter mixture of shame and frustration when he realized that he would never be a noble knight.

He would never be anything but a stain on the tapestry of House Stark.

How merrily the fates wove the ironies of life together.

He felt Sansa's cool hand close over his. It was a gentle gesture, and Jon felt his body react immediately. A tension coiled within his muscles, the fierce need to gather her closer almost unbearable. The urge to protect, to shield her from everyone, anyone who would so much as approach her.

It was one of the emotions that had shifted between them. He had always felt protective of his siblings; he had felt no different about Sansa, no matter how much she had loathed his very presence. Now, she held his hand and smiled at him.

Only for him.

He held her gaze, while the loud bellows and din of feasting and shouts, song and refrains of _'Hail the King in the North!'_ faded around them. Her hand in his. Her eyes, the colour of the bluest summer sky when he would lay in soft, tall sweet grass after a long day of sword practice and simply dream of a future of untainted freedom. He basked in her warmth like a man denied the sun for eons.

She was all he needed.

And for the first time in his life, he could see it in her steady gaze.

 _I am yours._

For each other, alone. Jon knew his hand was calloused and hugely graceless next to her pale one yet he still entwined his fingers with hers. Her smile grew all the more, a subtle blossoming at the very corner of her mouth.

Jon's heart beat in time with the steady rhythm of the pulse at her wrist. _All he needed._

He may not be worthy of song, nor titles. In his blood, he was still an outcast. The bastard of Winterfell. Scourge of the Watch. King of the North.

Protector to Sansa, Lady of Winterfell.

Jon swore he would make that title worthy of song.

* * *

 **Hopefully this will be the beginning of a short series. If people enjoy it, I will definitely be continuing and exploring both Sansa and Jon's chemistry and newfound status. Please feel free to review, and let me know what you think!**


	2. The Red Lady

**Sansa**

* * *

She dreamed in shades of red.

Red for the rose she had clutched to her breast during her first tourney in King's Landing, when she had been mesmerized by the chivalrous glory of it all. In her dreams however, all she remembered was a mountainous monster nearly murdering a fellow knight, and how she had clutched her father's hand in horror.

It had been so different than she had ever imagined; the ripe smell of sweat, both human and horse mixed with blood. Acrid, overpowering. It was a scent that would follow her like a blemish she could never wash away.

Her father's eyes were sad, his expression almost pitying. Guilty.

 _Forgive me, Sansa._

There was nothing to forgive. Sansa reached out, calling for him, for her mother, her brothers. Sister. Lady. All were swallowed in red, red flame and red blood, burning to nothing but black cinders. Hands closed around her throat, cold merciless touches that haunted her every step, and seeped insidiously past her guard to poison her sleep as well.

 _No one can protect you._

So many faces leering down at her and nowhere to escape them. Joffery's cruel, mocking laughter. Cersei's toxic smile. Honourless knights grabbing her, hurting her. Baelish's snake-like hiss in her ear, and she, desperate for guidance and to feel safe, to feel _loved_ once again obeying despite the writhing sickness in her belly.

 _Trust your instincts, Sansa._

Terror was a strange thing. It was all the more potent in dreams. A sadistic smile hovered above her, his eyes alight with an evil she would never forget. Of all the faces that plagued her, _his_ was the most starkly vivid. It always had the same effect on her; paralyzing, until she felt something deeper, something wild and primal rise within her breast.

 _Fight._

Terror became coiled muscles, preparing to lunge. Teeth bared, a growl tore from her throat. Biting, clawing. A vicious urge to tear, to _rip apart._ To make them all _suffer._

She was covered in red.

"My lady," a voice above her, a gentle shake of her shoulder. Sansa reacted instinctively; she did not hear the cry leave her, but she felt it grate painfully against the back of her throat, a ringing echo in her ears.

"My lady! Be calm. It is I; it is Brienne! Peace, my lady, peace…"

Tears were like rivers of ice against her flushed skin. Her breaths came out in harsh gasps, as though she had recently been held underwater. It was always the same. Try as she might, she could not evade sleep or the nightmares that followed. Beside her, she could hear Brienne pouring her a goblet of water.

"Here, my lady. Drink."

Sansa reached with trembling hands for the goblet. A part of her felt embarrassed at the way she needed Brienne to help guide it to her dry lips. W _eak. Stupid._ She was grateful however that Brienne was not the sort to offer warm and motherly comfort. If someone had tried to put a consoling arm about her, offer her reassurances, she thought she might shatter.

No more stories. No more comfort. It was as though all the things she had once cherished were now poison to her. She needed to be with things that did not remind her of the foolish girl who had prayed in the Godswood every day to bring her a gentle, kind knight to worship her. A child to hold.

 _Power._ No one sought love for the sake of love; they sought power. Truths, as sharp as steel. As rank as blood. That was what she sought now.

"Where is my robe?" she asked, her voice a hoarse croak despite the water Brienne silently encouraged her to keep sipping.

"It is right here, my lady. Shall I accompany you?"

"No."

Short, abrupt. How icy she was becoming; a statue covered in frost. A twinge of regret stole through her. Brienne had become her ever-watchful guardian in more ways than one. She was always there when the nightmares seemed endless, when it seemed they would pull her under and she would never surface again. She would wake her and sit ever-vigilant by her bedside, quietly. Patiently. Without judgement or pity. Brienne's sympathy was woven into her actions—and even as Sansa felt numbed now to the tales of knightly honour she had once adored, she recognized that Brienne was the truest knight she had ever beheld.

Brienne said nothing of Sansa's abrupt decline of her offer, as she knew she would, and simply assisted her into her long, heavy woolen robe.

"No thank you, Brienne," Sansa said, the words feeling ungainly on her tongue. Pretty words. What use were they? Yet she saw Brienne's features soften, a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement, and she realized that there was a difference between pretty words and true kindness. A kindness that she could feel leaching out of her, leaving her nothing but stone and ice.

 _Have you eaten enough?_

Dark, kind eyes. Always focused on her, even when he was looking at someone else. His hand, always within reach.

"I will light another fire for your return, my lady," Brienne was saying as Sansa slipped her feet mechanically into her slippers. She needed those eyes. She needed to see his kind face. She needed to _feel something._

"Thank you," Sansa heard herself reply. Brienne had followed her to the door, opening it for her and glancing down at the snow-white wolf who sat in the threshold, looking for all the world as though he had just been about to knock politely.

"It would seem your escort is punctual as always, my lady," Brienne said, eying the wolf with admiration mingled with a respectful wariness.

Ghost greeted Sansa with a solemn look, so eerily reminiscent of his master's. Her fingers wound within the soft fur at the back of his neck.

"Take me to him," she asked.

Ghost led her faithfully into the shadows.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for your favourites and reviews. You have really inspired me to continue this fairly quickly and I appreciate your time and I hope you continue to enjoy!**

 **Just a bit of background information: this is going to be AU; if I divert from established story lines it's because I wanted this to focus more on developing Jon and Sansa's relationship-how could it develop from barely tolerated half-sibling to love? That to me was a challenge, and I've already read some wonderful stories on this site that have convinced me it might be a possibility not just in the fandom of GOT but possibly in the show as well-you never know, right? Especially with G.R.R. Martin, master of the unexpected plot twists.  
**

 **So if I divert from the TV show or the books, please excuse!**

 **As always, reviews and opinions are valued!  
**


	3. Sleepless

**Jon**

* * *

The night air was sharp as daggers, burning his lungs with icy fire.

It was calling to him again.

At first it had been a vague whisper, veiled within the back of his mind ever since the bloody night Winterfell had been reclaimed.

Now, he heard voices in the dark hours of the night where he could find no sleep or rest. And every time he closed his eyes, however briefly, he could see it waiting for him. The ironwood door that led into the underbelly of Winterfell, where all her kin and Kings rested eternally. The winding, spiraling stone steps leading ever downward into the pitch black.

His oldest, most feared nightmare.

Jon could never quite make out what the whispers said. They rushed together like the whipping frozen winds of the keep itself. Secrets he had no right to know. Then why did they torment him? Was he to be the Mad King, as well as the Bastard King of Winterfell?

His very bones ached for his brother, Robb. Arya. Bran. Rickon.

 _His blood is on my hands._

So much blood on his hands. Jon closed his eyes, immune to the frigid cold that drenched the courtyard in icy stillness. The door was there. Perhaps it was his penance. A reminder that he was not supposed to be alive at all, that each breath he took was an affront to his family's memory. A dark seed of regret, always present within his heart took hold.

How he wished he hadn't survived the Watch. The battle. The urge to simply let go of everything, to drift into nothingness was more acute a pain than any scar or wound he bore. It was open, inflamed and raw. Nothing eased its potency.

Nothing, save…

Jon opened his eyes and the ironwood door disappeared. Awareness sparked to life within his veins, and he turned toward the soft, silent footfalls he hadn't heard approaching. Somehow, he knew she would be dressed in nothing more than a woolen robe, her feet clad in slippers, hand wrapped in Ghost's white fur. They neither of them felt the cold.

She stopped a few feet from him, Ghost sitting obediently by her feet. Jon met her gaze in the shadows.

"It is late," his voice was dry, grating. Uncouth. Yet he saw none of the disdainful impatience he had once glimpsed in her when they had been children. If anything, he saw her features, usually so guarded relax a little. He watched her pale hand surface from beneath her robes to stroke Ghost's head.

"It would seem I had a visitor again. I hadn't the heart to turn him away."

Jon felt his chapped lips crack a little in a smile, the first he'd given that day. It felt strange, like the echo of a song only half-remembered.

"He worries for you," he said softly.

Sansa knelt in the snow, her pale robes pooling like a patch of blue-grey moonlight around her. Jon watched silently as she took Ghost's huge head between her hands. The direwolf turned toward her, quiet and grave as she nuzzled her face into his neck. In that moment, Jon felt everything else fade away. His grief. His worries and guilt. His wish for the peace of death. His heart stirred, and it was only because he knew not to intrude that he stayed where he was, and did not approach her. Ever watchful, he waited patiently in the ice and snow and the silence.

"I miss her so much."

Jon caught the words, but said nothing. It was like this, between them. Confiding little shards of the last five years to each other. She had never spoken about Lady. When he had commanded Ghost to hold vigil outside her chambers at night, it had been because he knew she had needed the presence of a wolf again. He had only commanded Ghost to her side once; the direwolf had taken to seeking her out every night since then.

He heard Sansa sigh, a stream of white mist rising into the night air. He remained perfectly still, watching her as one would a wild doe caught in the open.

"She was so gentle," Sansa murmured, raising her head and gazing into Ghost's steady scarlet eyes. "So obedient. Trusting. She trusted anyone. She trusted me."

Jon didn't have to hear the words to know what she was thinking: _and her blood is on my hands._

"She loved you," he spoke quietly. "That is why she trusted you. Loyalty—true loyalty—is borne from love. Devotion. Not fear. You honor her memory. That is something no one can take."

Sansa stood. "It is admirable," she said after a moment, gazing at him with an unguarded expression that made him move toward her, his footfalls heavy and crunching, the snow brittle like broken glass beneath his boots.

"What is?" he asked, curiously. Sansa's gaze did not waver. "The way you sound like him. Like father. Like a King."

Jon shifted his feet, his hands suddenly feeling unnatural, as though he didn't quite know what to do with them. A flush burned in his cheeks, stinging all the more in the cold air. Sansa's knowing smile was all-encompassing, and he found he couldn't look away. He didn't want to.

"Although eventually you will have to learn how to accept a compliment," she added dryly, and he realized with a rush that she was _teasing_ him. The tension snapped. They both laughed, just as they had the night she had returned to him. The night they had basked in each others company, and she had drunk stale ale from his cup and asked him to forgive her their past. He still recalled the expression on her pale, bruised face when he had immediately replied that no forgiveness was needed. Sad. As though her soul had aged a century since their days at Winterfell.

"You always were a better pupil than I," he said, fondly remembering how she used to chide them all, especially Arya, when their attentions wandered from the septa's stern lectures. Sansa's smile vanished. "I was arrogant. I thought—" she began then faltered, her gaze dropping to her hands which were twisting together absently.

It took no effort for Jon to reach out and take her hands in his. They were like ice, whereas his burned, always warm with some internal flame. As though his blood was somehow hotter. It had been that way since he'd awoken to find himself half-naked, his chest and ribs marred with fatal red gashes. The one that stretched across his heart still stung, the slowest to heal.

He felt no pain now. Intently focused on her bowed head, Jon allowed the warmth from his hands to permeate the chill in hers.

"You're cold," he said, as gently and softly as he could manage.

"I feel nothing," she replied quickly. Too quickly. Jon sensed she was withdrawing from him, and though it hurt he didn't question why. He knew. Slowly he came to her side, folding her hands into the crook of his arm.

"Come. Neither of us can sleep. There is something we used to do at the Wall. When the night was blacker than pitch and none of us could see a bloody thing."

She raised her head, blue eyes lit with curiosity. Jon smiled down at her. He still regretted his rough speech, but he had stopped coming to expect the disapproving looks she always used to give him. Still, he would try and smooth the rough edges for her. She was all he had left. When she was near, the ironwood door did not haunt him.

"As long as it doesn't involve that ghastly swill they told you was ale," she said, suddenly wary. Jon watched with amusement as her eyes widened considerably at his answering grin. She tilted her chin into the air, an unspoken acceptance of his challenge.

With Ghost at their heels, they left the empty courtyard together.

* * *

 **Thank you, thank you for reviewing/following! I love hearing your thoughts. :) Next chapter should be out soon, and a bit longer. More bonding to come, as well as some realizations...  
**

 **Thank you for reading, as always feel free to let me know what you think!**


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